“Tain't over lively at this time o' day,” permitting his blue eyes to wander up the silent street, but instantly bringing them back to Keith's face, “but I reckon it'll wake up later on.”
He stood squarely on both feet, and one hand rested on the butt of a revolver. Keith noticed this, wondering vaguely.
“I reckon yer know, Jack, as how I ginerally git what I goes after,” said the slow, drawling voice, “an' that I draw 'bout as quick as any o' the boys. They tell me yo're a gun-fighter, but it won't do ye no good ter make a play yere, fer one o' us is sure to git yer—do yer sabe?”
“Get me?” Keith's voice and face expressed astonishment, but not a muscle of his body moved. “What do you mean, Bob—are you fellows after me?”
“Sure thing; got the warrant here,” and he tapped the breast of his shirt with his left hand.
The color mounted into the cheeks of the other, his lips grew set and white, and his gray eyes darkened.
“Let it all out, Marshal,” he said sternly, “you've got me roped and tied. Now what's the charge?”
Neither man moved, but the one below swung about so as to face them, one hand thrust out of sight beneath the tail of his long coat.
“Make him throw up his hands, Bob,” he said sharply.
“Oh, I reckon thar ain't goin' ter be no trouble,” returned the marshal genially, yet with no relaxation of attention. “Keith knows me, an' expects a fair deal. Still, maybe I better ask yer to unhitch yer belt, Jack.”